


more sun, more tempest (more fear and fearlessness)

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [133]
Category: Bleach, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Fix-It, M/M, Shisui deserves a knight in shining armor, Villain Death, even if that knight just happens to be a god of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Shūhei is in the middle of trying to figure out how to tell his captainwe don’t do things that way anymore because that system is outdated and also wrongwhen the whole world lurches under his feet.





	more sun, more tempest (more fear and fearlessness)

Shūhei is in the middle of trying to figure out how to tell his captain _we don’t do things that way anymore because that system is outdated and also wrong_ when the whole world lurches under his feet.

He yelps, stumbles. The layout for the _Communications_ goes spilling from his arms, scraps of paper and a handful of sketches scattering across the ground. Shūhei hits on one knee, suddenly dizzy, his heart racing like he’s in the middle of a fight. He digs his fingers into the earth, trying to get ahold of himself, trying to breathe through the feeling, but—

“Kid?” Kensei asks, turning sharply. The flare of his haori makes Shūhei’s stomach lurch, and he slams his eyes shut. There's a sound of concern, heavy steps. “Kid, what the hell—” Kensei starts.

It feels like some vast, invisible hook sinks into Shūhei’s chest and _wrenches_. He loses all of his breath on a cry, and in his head Kazeshini rises, all sharp-edged alarm and razor winds. _Up_ , the spirit snarls, _get up, move, fight it!_

Shūhei can feel it, too, knows he needs to get away. He grabs for his sword, fingers skimming the hilt once, twice before he finally manages to grasp it, and somewhere beyond the spinning darkness that’s filling up his senses he hears Mashiro shout, feels the tornado-gust of Kensei's zanpakutō awakening. There's no real chance for them to help him, though; the hook in his chest jerks, hauls him forward like a huge hand, and before Shūhei knows it he’s falling.

There's no ground to meet him, no hard-packed earth of the Seireitei’s streets. Just darkness, rising, overwhelming, and Kazeshini hisses _Shūhei_ in a tone that’s entirely command. Shūhei’s hand is still around the hilt of his sword, and he can feel the heat of the reiatsu in it, the surge of power as Kazeshini lends his own strength. He draws it with a jerk, twists—

 _Light_ , and then darkness again, but it’s the darkness of night instead of nothingness. Shūhei tumbles over, gathers reiatsu under his feet, and there's so _much_ of it, a concentration like standing in the very center of a wellspring, like facing the Kikōō with nothing but a prayer. His sandals catch, and he lands in a crouch, heavy on the impact but already rising.

There's a riverbank before him, a man with figures in black grouped close around him, their weapons drawn. Onmitsukidō, Shūhei thinks at first, but these aren’t Sui-Feng’s division members. They don’t have the same sense to them. Too flat, Shūhei thinks; the Onmitsukidō hide their faces, but Shūhei knows them, almost _was_ one of them, and these masked figures are hard to even tell apart.

Then his gaze flickers down, to the bare earth beneath his perch, and he freezes.

There's a man, one eye gone, blood running thick and wet down his cheek. The other eye is _burning_ , crimson in the darkness, and the feel of it is the same as whatever power pulled Shūhei here. He meets that startled stare, his own eyes narrowing, and—

The wounded man is on the ground, shaking, drawn. The other man, with his covered eye and his masked soldiers around him, has something in his hand that’s dripping blood, and he’s watching Shūhei with a dark, hungry gaze, full of threat. Easy to see who’s the victim here, Shūhei thinks grimly, and brings his zanpakutō up, bracing the blade in front of him. The spirit surges forward, laughing eagerly, and his green-bright reiatsu whirls out.

“Reap, Kazeshini,” Shūhei intones, and the katana shatters, falls, reforms. Twin scythes settle in his hands, and he weighs them for a moment, watching, waiting—

“What an interesting ability, Shisui,” the old man says, flat and full of greed. He nods to the men around him, and says, “Bring me the other eye.”

Shisui's eye goes wide, and he staggers up, but Shūhei is already moving. He drops between Shisui and the other group, touches down lightly, and says, “Return what you’ve already taken.”

The old man studies him, mouth curving, and it’s either amusement or a sneer. “Not a mindless genjutsu, then?” he asks. “How clever. And useful, I'm sure.”

“Why are you _doing_ this, Danzō?” Shisui demands, and that tone—betrayal, Shūhei thinks, and something inside of him goes very dark and still and cold.

 _Fear your sword_ , he thinks, and breathes through the ache in his chest. _Fear your sword each time you draw it, and you will only draw it for the right reasons._

“The Uchiha won't be stopped by your eyes,” Danzō says, like it’s a fact. That’s the same way Tōsen spoke, and it curls like razor-edged fire through Shūhei’s chest. “So I will stop them a different way.”

Shisui laughs, ragged and bitter. “You won't,” he says.

Raising a hand, Danzō makes a gesture. “I think you’ll find that you believe me,” he says evenly, but—

Shūhei feels the ripple of reiatsu, full of intent, and raises a hand. “Bakudō 39: Enkosen!” he cries, and the curving arc of reiatsu meets the oncoming spell even as Shūhei leaps the barrier, Kazeshini spinning from his fingers. The masked soldiers scatter, and Danzō dodges, but not far enough. With a jerk of the chain, Shūhei pulls the whirling blade back towards him, kicks a soldier out of the air and hits him with a simple binding that puts him down, gasping and straining but unable to break free.

To his left, there's a blur of speed, as fast as a flash-step but accompanied by a tornado of leaves, and Shisui appears out of the shimmer, tantō in hand. With a cry, he swings at Danzō’s throat, but he’s unsteady on his feet, not quite as coordinated as he should be—blood loss, Shūhei assumes. He turns, blocking a blow, then sending the other scythe out in a wide arc. One of the soldiers grabs the chain, tries to pull him off his feet, but Shūhei has been a seated officer for fifty years now; he leaps, flicks the chain hard, and wraps two loops of it around the woman as he comes down. She tries to turn, but Shūhei binds her arms, lets her fall, and looks for his summoner.

It’s not a fair fight. Danzō is unhindered, while Shisui is missing an eye and reeling from blood loss, and the odds make Shūhei _angry._ Danzō’s just striking out, and Shisui can't dodge in time, but Shūhei drops between them, takes the blow on Kazeshini’s haft and grabs Shisui around the waist. Flicks a hand up, wrenching Kazeshini’s chain back towards him, and while Danzō is leaping to avoid the arc of the scythe he snaps out, “Seeping crest of turbidity! Arrogant vessel of lunacy! Boil forth and deny! Grow numb and flicker! Disrupt sleep! Crawling queen of iron! Eternally self-destructing doll of mud! Unite! Repulse! Fill with soil and know your own powerlessness! Hadō 90: Kurohitsugi!”

Purple-black energy falls like a torrent over Danzō’s head, resolves into a black coffin-like box, and spears of deep violet pierce through it with a hiss like blades. Carefully, gracefully, Shūhei alights on the branch of a tree, still holding Shisui up, and watches narrowly as the Hadō shimmers, holds for several long moments, and then finally starts to fade. Not nearly as powerful as it could have been, he thinks, and breathes out, raising a hand to catch Kazeshini as it whirls back to his grip. But—decent. Shūhei’s gotten better at kidō these last few years.

As the last motes of violet-black light fade out, Danzō’s body drops, sprawls still on the ground. Shūhei watches for another moment, but…he forgot that souls are more resilient than humans. A captain could probably shake off his Kurohitsugi, but this man won't. His body is half-crushed, stabbed through, but Shūhei doesn’t let himself dwell. He’ll purify the soul, send it on, and even if he didn’t he wouldn’t regret it. respect for what Tōsen taught him aside, Shūhei isn't fond of traitors.

There's a sudden, desperate rush as the masked soldiers flee their commander’s fall, and Shūhei lets them go, focuses on letting Shisui slip out of his grip to sit on the wide branch, and crouches to check the bleeding.

“I'm sorry about your eye,” he says grimly.

A pause, and then Shisui laughs, leaning forward. He buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and through the giggles he manages, “Eyepatches are cool, no worries. I can look like Kakashi-senpai.”

That’s a good thing, at least, judging by his tone. Shūhei crouches down beside him, lays a hand against his spine, because he’s seen shock before. This has all the makings of it.

“The most terrifying man I know wears an eyepatch,” he offers, and tries to hide the wry note to it. Zaraki doesn’t exactly _need_ it, but he fights well without his full range of vision regardless.

With a heavy breath, Shisui rocks onto his heels, sits down hard and lifts his head. He’s smiling, and if it’s a little tired Shūhei thinks that can definitely be forgiven under the circumstances. He glances up, taking in Shūhei’s face, and then laughs a little wryly and drags a hand through his hair. “Oh gods, I just…dragged you here, didn’t I? I'm so sorry, I didn’t even know Kotoamatsukami could _do_ that. I just—Danzō was trying—”

He breaks off, but Shūhei understands, almost painfully so. He presses his fingertips a little more firmly against Shisui's skin and shakes his head. “I'm glad I could help,” he says firmly, and a flicker of motion below makes him turn. Danzō’s soul, just starting to stir, and it needs to pass on. Shūhei rises to his feet, jerking Kazeshini up into his grip and fitting the scythes together. They shimmer, fading back into a katana, and Shūhei flips the blade over, leaps down. He doesn’t pause to ask for permission, doesn’t waver, just presses the hilt to the soul’s forehead as Danzō stirs, and watches him dissolve into glowing golden motes.

There's a sharply indrawn breath from behind him, and Shūhei turns to find Shisui leaning over the edge of the branch, one leg dangling. “What was _that_?” he asks, red-and-black eye flickering from Shūhei to his sword to Danzō’s body.

“The soul passing on,” Shūhei says, and sheathes Kazeshini in a practiced motion. The bound soldiers are going still, drained from fighting the Bakudō holding them, but Shūhei isn't about to let them go when he and Shisui are still outnumbered. “We should get you to a medic before you lose any more blood.”

Shisui hesitates, then grimaces. “I don’t know how to get you back to—to wherever you came from,” he says, frustrated, and drops to land in a crouch. Rises, stumbles, and Shūhei automatically steps in to catch him, an arm around his waist as he pulls Shisui's arm over his shoulders.

“I think you have more important things to worry about right now,” he says, and Shūhei has never been good at gentle, but he can do determined, focused. “Is there anyone else who’s a threat to you?”

“Maybe the other elders on the council?” Shisui ventures, frowning. “But Danzō was their ringleader, so they're probably not an immediate danger. But—I need to get to the Hokage, he doesn’t know what Danzō was trying and if he’s going to deal with the coup—”

Shūhei really, really doesn’t like the sound of that. “Is there a safe place you can get treatment? I can carry a message if you need me to.”

For a long moment, Shisui is silent. Then he laughs, and his knees practically buckle as he slumps against Shūhei’s side. “Who even _are_ you?” he asks, and there's a note of wonder to it that makes Shūhei swallow.

“A Shinigami,” he says softly. “Hisagi Shūhei.”

The laugh that breaks from Shisui's throat is raw. “A shinigami,” he repeats. “A god of death saved my life. That’s the plot twist of the century.”

“Deus ex Machina?” Shūhei suggest dryly, and Shisui laughs, more genuine this time.

“Good enough for me,” he says, and it’s something close to cheerful. “I know a vet who should be able to patch me up, if you really mean it about running messages. It seems like I should save the death god’s help for more dramatic stuff than paperwork, though.”

“Death _runs_ on paperwork,” Shūhei mutters, thinking of the stacks upon stacks of the stuff on his desk in the Ninth.

“Some things never change,” Shisui says, and tightens his grip on Shūhei, hauling himself back to his feet. Steadies, careful and deliberate, and then breathes out. “Okay. Okay, I can—this is going to be such a _mess_.”

“At least you’re alive to deal with it?” Shūhei offers.

Shisui swallows, musters up a smile. “Alive, in possession of one eye, and with a mysterious new ability to summon Shinigami out of thin air,” he says, and offers Shūhei a grin. “Handsome Shinigami, even.” Then he seems to realize what he said and flushes.

He can't flush as fast as Shūhei, though. Red washes across his face, and he splutters, tries to go reeling back but is hindered by Shisui's weight on his shoulder. “I—you—I'm not—”

Shisui stares at him, wide-eyed and startled, and then he turns, wraps both arms around Shūhei’s shoulders, and lets all his weight fall on him. He bears Shūhei to the ground, laughing brightly, and Shūhei would be blatantly lying if he said his heart didn’t turn over at least a little in his chest at the sound of it.


End file.
